


A Kindness

by mystic_hyacinth



Category: Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician), Real Person Fiction, The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: And partially by my girlfiend, Army of Lesbians, Happy Belated Birthday to ME!, Hozier References, Hozier is basically like Dionysus, Hozier's power is ridding the world of compulsory heterosexuality, Inspired partially by the Bacchae, Lesbian Sex, M/M, Magic, Male Homosexuality, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Old God Hozier, Orgies, Religion, Religious Cults, Slow Dancing, Then I got way too into it, This was supposed to be a joke, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24291415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystic_hyacinth/pseuds/mystic_hyacinth
Summary: Geralt is tasked with ridding a small town of a siren who is luring away their women and bringing grown men to tears. Upon meeting said siren, he begins to reconsider taking the position in the first place.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Andrew Hozier-Byrne
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	A Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to me a joke and all real people mentioned in this story are not supposed to be the people themselves. All characters are just that - caricatures and representations confined to fiction that are not emblematic of who they may resemble in real life.
> 
> With that said, please enjoy!

  
The innkeeper in the last town he’d stopped in had said the moors were usually so nice this time of year. Long days marked by the buzzing of insects, the shrill calls of hidden birds and the general pleasantries that came with high summer in the countryside. Hardly any nobles or wealthy merchants made their summer homes here, with the land being too unstable to build any grand holiday estates. Instead, the locals had called it their own little slice of paradise, favoring the unpredictable and frigid winters in exchange for long, mild summers. _Heaven_ , the old man called it, _the closest thing to heaven any of us wretches might ever get to._

Geralt had wanted so badly to slap the old man across the face for lying to him. Since he’d left the tiny inn in that tiny town a couple days ago, the times were it wasn’t pouring were marked by air so humid and muggy it felt as though he were walking through hot soup and fog so thick if he were to put his hands a foot in front of him, they would disappear. Roach had remained resilient. Even when he found himself stuck in the mud or wading through the flooded, reedy waters of the bog - the horse seemed almost apologetic for slowing Geralt down.

The witcher tried to reassure his companion, feeding him whatever scraps he could even as Geralt’s own stomach began to grumble. He paid it no mind, pulled the soaked hood tighter over his head and kept on his sojourn.

Honestly, he was only half sure of what he was looking for. The locals had only described the effects the creature had on them. It would start at sundown and continue until maybe midnight - a croon, low and husky would echo around them all - coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. People would stop in their tracks, animals would fall silent and voices would stop for just a few moments, as though the town was held in suspension, listening to the incorporeal performance. The words could hardly be made out - but the voice behind them sounded almost pained, yearning for something they couldn’t place, craving, wanting, _needing_ \- beckoning them to hear its plea.

And then, the madness would start. Men would be brought to tears, leaning on one another for support as they bawled and stayed that way, inconsolable for hours. Whilst they were in hysterics, the women would take off - old and young - into the wilds - feet pounding like animals as they dashed through the treeline that separated the town from the moors. The music would continue until dawn, accompanied by the distant cries of revelry and pleasure as the women partied the night through. 

Six weeks of this, the innkeeper had explained. The children went unaffected, but the old innkeeper’s nephew who looked no more than ten - provided the best description he could.

“He’s tall.” the boy had told him. “I followed them when my big sister ran off. They drink and they dance and they fuck - but when I tried to go and grab her she lashed out at me, cut me right here.” he said, pointing to the fresh car that slashed across his chubby cheek, narrowly missing his eye. “I saw him though, before I went back, had long hair like yours, but it was brown and stopped at his neck. Covered in flowers, too - like he just woke up from the dirt.”

Geralt could only hum at the description before the boy was shooed off by his uncle. “He’s wild too, that one. Don’t listen to him.”

Geralt did - it was the only lead he had. From the stories told, it sounded like any typical siren - if he found it, killed it and freed all those rabid women, he could get out of this boggy wasteland. 

Their sojourn continued a few more minutes before Geralt heard splashing. Too heavy and loud to be that of water bugs or any birds diving down for a fish or two. Besides, birds didn’t shriek like that.

Before he could stop and properly listen - the women charged out of the fog. 

They came at him seemingly by the dozen, clothed either severely tattered or gone completely and steps made slightly clumsy in the water. Their hair frazzled and unkempt, eyes wide and hand reaching to tear a piece out of him. **_“You don’t belong here!”_** they cried. ** _“I don’t belong to you!”_** more shouted. **_“You aren’t one of us!”_**

Geralt swung his sword at a young girl nearly as tall as he was, slicing her across the stomach and hardly watching as she sploshed into the murky water below. It served to only rile the others up farther and before he could whip around to finish off the ones behind him he was pulled back at the hair and several other pairs of hands came to hold him steady. He managed to break free of their grip and nearly sliced at a few more girls before a voice echoed through the mist.   
  
“My indelible friends, please.” called a voice from the behind them, husky and low. “There is no need for violence in this place. This realm is one of softness.”

After a few moments the women paused and turned to one another, smiling and laughing as if they’d just played a joke on the man who still had a sword pointing at them. They began to chatter, linking arms and turning to walk back through the mist. 

Geralt, sword still pointed, followed them. 

He hardly had to make an effort to remain quiet, the women seemed to forget he was there. Soon enough, the bog itself began to give way to more solid ground and before long they were disappearing into another thick of woods. Geralt didn’t even have to keep silent snapping twigs and throwing away all semblances of stealth. It seemed whatever had spoken to the women had deafened them as well, allowing him to walk with relative ease whilst still brandishing his sword to ward off whatever might be lurking just off the path.

Finally, they came to stop at the roots of a great tree. The ground beneath them slightly sunken in, forming a pit that was covered over by a patchwork canopy strung with tiny, wispy lights that glowed a soft orange. All underneath the canopy were soft pillows and silken blankets of many colors, as well as several tables overflowing with all matters of food and drink enough to feed the few dozen women several times over - as well as the siren who sat right against the tree itself, looking up at Geralt as he descended into the pit. 

The siren was as the kid described, mile-long legs dangling over what looked to be a chair overgrown with moss and wildflowers. His shirt was unbuttoned nearly to his navel, ruffles in the fabric blending in with the never ending whorls of his dark hair. His eyes, muddy as the ground beneath them - looked old, tired - hiding some type of longing behind a veil of serenity. He regarded Geralt for a moment, as if wanting to make sure he was the right person before he relaxed back into his chair, the flowers seemingly sprouting from his clothes and skin swaying with the motion. 

“You’ve come.” said the siren, a soft smile playing on his lips. “I won’t pretend I don’t know what for, but I would very much like you to join us for dinner before you end me.”

The women, now dissuaded from attempting to tear Geralt to shreds, seemed to have their attention occupied with one another. Some talked, though Geralt could hardly make out their words, others fed one another and a handful had taken to kissing and fucking one another in the pit- blissful and so lost in one another’s company they hardly noticed Geralt nor the siren.

“What spell is this?”

“No spell.” said the siren, picking up a cup of wine. “Look at them, that happiness, that glee - it was in them all along.” he said, looking upon the women even as they could care less about his presence at this point. “It has some nasty side-effects but - “

“So I take it being feral is a side-effect?”

“All humans are feral, these few are just more obvious about it.” he said, before his eyes fell to the blood on Geralt’s sword. A small frown befell him before his eyes met the Witcher’s once again. “She didn’t mean to hurt you, you know - none of them do.”

“She meant to sing to me, then?”

The siren smiled, “Hardly. She was protecting herself, her friends, her lovers. If a strange, blood-starved man came to your home with a sword drawn and heart not knowing a single ounce of kindness, wouldn’t you try to protect those whom you love?”

“I have no home, no people to love. Your exercises in empathy only serve to draw this out further.”

The siren laughed, sitting up in his seat. “Well let’s keep drawing this out, shall we? You’ll find I’m in the business of providing shelter to the homeless and lovers to the loveless.”

Geralt looked around and the siren really wasn’t lying. Despite the fact that they were practically huddled up in a lean-to against the forest floor, the hoard of women couldn’t look happier. 

“And when they’re all tranced up like this, what? They become your breeding stock?”

The siren looked mortified, blush settling on him in such a way that Geralt shouldn't have found it alluring. “Unless they ask me to, I hardly partake. The world outside is already rife with people who wish to control and belittle them, treat them more like animals - I allow them to become one with themselves, body and mind, heart and spirit - and allow them to become one with one another - feelings kept caged and hidden now allowed to be free. Hearts allowed to be truly made whole unfettered by old, miserable men like you or I.”

Geralt raised a brow, looking at women again. They were normal now, happy, as if they were just stopping to chat with each other at the market - though he couldn't mistake the rosiness in their cheeks, the glimmer in their eyes, love festering inside of l of them. 

_Siren_ was an understatement, this was a different type of magic entirely. 

“The men in town call you siren, are you aware of that?” said Geralt, the word seeming bitter and ill-fitting as he spoke it. “They say their women are driven to madness, lashing out and clawing at them.”

The brunette smiled a little pitifully, as if thanking them for their attempt to try and categorize him. “Their ancestors knew better, when this land was free and without the rigidity of these new gods, hating love was a foreign concept.” he rose, walking across the intermingled bodies to go stand and face Geralt, uncaring at the sword clutched tightly in his hand.

“You have old eyes, witcher, old like mine. You know what a siren is - you know I am not that.” he whispered, so low it was barely over a rumble. Geralt stood steadfast and unwavering. 

“You tear mothers from their children, sisters from brothers, wives from husbands.” Geralt hissed, but stood in place as though he couldn’t bring himself to run. 

“And I bring together what is true, what their hearts desire. I bring love from strife, witcher. That is what I’ve been doing since the old gods ruled these lands. When my own mother raised me from the bogs she taught me only love. When the new gods and their hatred came in, the fae taught me to dance, to sing - to make it so that when the church betrayed the mortals, they could find solace in the old ways and old happinesses - their focus only on pleasing themselves and one another, without threat of damnation or hellfire.” he said, so close Geralt could feel the breath of his words press against his lips.

“I have become love and loss itself, witcher.” he said. “Old magics - older than you or me control this realm - and as love itself, we are powerless to stop it.” 

There was a moment of pause before the old god or whatever he was caught himself, pulling away abruptly as though he was scared of what he would do if he leaned forward any closer. 

“Forgive me, witcher. That was rude of me, please would you care for dinner? Your horse looks awfully exhausted as well.” he sighed, going towards Roach to pet him. The horse seemed to enjoy it, pushing his big head into the man's hand.

_Traitor._

“If I kill you, do you come back?” asked Geralt. 

He sighed and pressed his forehead to Roach’s. “It takes a god to kill a god, witcher. If you truly desire for me to let the women go, I can try - but I can not guarantee it will work, nor can I guarantee they will go quietly back to their old lives.” he turned back to Geralt. “I’m bound to these lands, I can’t travel like you. It would be nice to have the company, though.”

“I’m not going to be part of your bacchanalia.” 

The man laughed, brushing some flowers out of his eyes. “I don’t wish you to be.” he said. “If you leave these moors with nothing else but the pithy coin they promised to pay you - I ask you to take my memory with you, please?”

Geralt looked into those muddy eyes once more and could only feel the severe yearning that emanated from them as though Roach had kicked him in the chest. He gave a small smirk. “We’re both old, you know that memories only benefit those who die quickly. For us they simply serve to blur our better judgement.”

The siren turned to tie roach to a nearby tree. “I guess that’s fair, witcher. However, now is no time to mourn, not yet anyways.” he smiled before going back towards Geralt and taking his hand, hardly wary of the sword that he still held, although a bit more loosely. “Put away your sword, soldier, the war is over and now has come time for dancing.”

“How can I trust you?”

“My powers don’t allow me to take a life - and they…” he pointed to the women, now seemingly all in the throes of an orgy. “Are now too in love to care. If you truly wanted me dead, this would be the perfect opportunity.”

Geralt waited a moment before sheathing his sword. “You will die, I guarantee it.” he said and the man smiled and took his hands, allowing Geralt to lead as they danced.

The witcher was by no means a good dancer, but the old god tolerated it - allowing them to sway rhythmically as the music started to play - from nowhere and everywhere at once. The voice was clearly that of the old god, but the man’s mouth never moved, simply staring off dreamily as the dying light of sunset began to through the cluster of trees. 

“That’s you?” Geralt asked, voice low.

“Projections of my heart, calling out to the nothingness.” replied the old god. “Do you like it?”

“I’m not a big fan of dirges.”

“Well, before this I wasn’t a huge fan of witchers.” he said. “Times change, don’t they? How strange it would be to stay one way your entire life.”

Eventually they found some awkward rhythm as they moved together, the sound of the crooning nearly frowning out that of the pleasured baying several feet away from them. The old god seemed entirely lost in it and Geralt felt as if the world had slowed around them, paradise unfolding in time with the music. 

“Witcher,” hummed the old god. “If I am to perish whilst swaying in your embrace, I will count it as a kindness.”

Geralt gave him the barest hint of a smile before turning back to the setting sun. Kindness, softness, love itself, things that seemed alien to him now hung in the air like the dense fog of the moors.

The coin could wait. 

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: @plentyokenty
> 
> Love you all! Stay safe!


End file.
